


Navigation

by wordsinbetween



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied Relationships, Jealousy, Sharing a Bed, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 14:44:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14834250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinbetween/pseuds/wordsinbetween
Summary: It's only their third mission back since she suddenly asked for a week off, since she called him and said, "Andrew and I got married on Friday."





	Navigation

It's been awhile since they've had a mission in Europe. It's the beginning of December, the snowcapped Alps in the distance, only just visible from their hotel room. Phil's always liked Germany this time of year; festive and colorful, drinks flowing freely. Nightly crowds that are easy to blend into. The cold bite in the air is refreshing; their breaths blend together as they stand outside yet another brewery, clutching half-touched beers as they watch their target from across the street.

May drinks from her glass, her gaze drifting over the other patrons near them, rowdy as they are. The mix of three, four different languages is somehow familiar, comforting. She's wrapped her scarf around her neck as many times as it will allow; he knows she's not quite as fond of the cold as he is. It's starting to snow, a gentle but cold breeze brushing past them. Her arm is pressed against his, and he feels her shiver, despite the number of layers they're each wearing. She takes a drink, as if that will help.

"Does this guy ever take a night off?" She says, more annoyed than he's heard her in a long time. Then again, they've been here for hours. He's close to calling it a night.

"I think we're in the wrong country if you're looking for a night off from festivities."

There have been whispers about an arms dealer gaining traction in the region for months now. Old Hydra tech resurfaces every couple years; every time they take down a fraction, a new one pops up. Cut off one head, yeah, whatever. Barton and Romanoff spent three months in Russia taking down the last dealer; all things considered, he'd much rather be in Germany. So here they are, four days in, standing outside in the snow, clutching cold drinks.

It's only their third mission back since she suddenly asked for a week off, since she called him and said, "Andrew and I got married on Friday."

It's only their third mission back since his breath caught in his throat and he stumbled over his words before finally getting out a congratulations. "I'm so happy for you guys," he had said, grateful that she couldn't see his face.

It's been five months since then, and they've hardly broached the subject. He's not really sure what to say, other than a short, "So, how are things with Andrew?" when they first set out. All he usually gets is an equally short, "He's fine. Are you ready?"

He feels her shiver again. He turns toward her, thinking maybe he can get away with wrapping his arm around her shoulders, to share his warmth. They're undercover, after all; maybe she wouldn't shrug him off. He hates that he feels like he's fumbling in all new ways now.

Finally, their target gets up to leave, walking down the street. Phil laughs under his breath as the man, all 6'3 of him, stumbles into a parked car.

"This would be a lot easier if you'd let me take him out now, you know," she says, rolling her eyes as their well-connected and elusive arms dealer nearly slips on some ice. "Seriously? This is the guy they've been tracking for months?"

"I don't make the rules," he shrugs.

Eventually, they wind up on their street; his cheeks are numb, fingers aching from the cold even though they're shoved deeply into his pockets. The snow has started to pick up, covering the quiet streets in a matter of minutes. They linger on the corner, watching their target walk into his building. As they enter their hotel, Phil nods at Agents Byrd and Stone who are sitting in the lobby. Wordlessly, the new shift takes over.

Their room is hardly warmer than the temperatures they just escaped. He walks to the radiator situated under the window and next to the only bed in the room; he cranks it as high as it will go, though he knows it will struggle all night long. They didn't exactly choose the hotel for its accommodations. From their window, they've got a perfect visual of the front and side entrances of their target's building.

The clock on the microwave tells him it's half past midnight, and he yawns as he strips out of his wet coat. The snow doesn't look like it'll be stopping any time soon. _That'll be a pain in the ass tomorrow_ , he thinks. He stands next to the radiator until the feeling returns to his fingers, listening to the shower start in the bathroom. The water won't shut off for ten minutes atleast, he knows that much. He can almost imagine the hot steam wrapping around his shoulders, the water warming his chest from the outside in. Arms wrapped him, warm lips pressed to that spot between his shoulder blades.

He shakes his head, breaking the train of thoughts. _Stop it_ , he tells himself. He strips out of his long-sleeved shirt, shivering as he rummages through his bag until he finds a clean tee. He pulls his faded hoodie over his head and steps into his sweatpants, sighing at the immediate comfort and warmth. His limbs feel heavy with sleep, and maybe a little too much beer. He moves back toward the radiator, watching the snow fall until he hears the bathroom door click open behind him.

"Feel better?"

"Unbelievably," she says, toweling her hair dry with one hand as she dumps her dirty clothes on the floor next to her bag. "Is that thing turned up?"

"Yup," he says, drawing the curtains closed, though it's not as if the thin material really does much to help insulate the room. "She's maxed out, sorry."

She walks to the door and checks the locks before draping her towel over one of the kitchen chairs, picking up her sidearm from the table and checking it, too. She checks the magazine before reloading and quickly chambering a round, all in one practiced, fluid motion. She clicks the safety on and sets the weapon on nightstand before lying down, quickly gathering the huge blankets around her and tucking them under her chin.

"What?" She asks when she notices him smiling at her.

"Comfy?"

"Get the light," is all she says, but he sees her try to hide her smile beneath the covers.

He walks towards the couch on the other side of the room, hitting the overhead light switch on his way past. He collapses onto the cushions, cursing under his breath when he lays head down and feels how cold the pillow is. He wraps the spare comforter as tightly around his shoulders as he can manage, burying his nose under the edge in a halfhearted attempt to warm his skin with his own breath.

He can never sleep like that, with his face buried under the covers. It's too suffocating, no matter how cold he may be. He lifts his head out and listens to the struggling radiator as it attempts to warm the room. The couch is just as uncomfortable as the first night, and he's starting to feel it. He lets out a shaky breath, and he knows she can hear it as soon as it escapes his mouth.

"Would you just get over here already?" She says into the darkness, words exasperated but tone still soft.

He hesitates; he hates the fact that he's unsure of their boundaries these days. He's stuck navigating in the dark.

He stands, comforter still wrapped around him, and shuffles towards the bed. She moves over to her normal side, nearest the door, offering him the space next to the wall-- and the radiator. He spreads his comforter over the bed before sliding under the covers next to her. Even with the radiator hot behind him, he struggles to stop shivering, curling in on himself as he waits for the layers of blankets and her body heat to warm him up.

She turns to face him, pulling on the blankets until they're sufficiently tucked under his chin. He laughs when she covers his ear with her hand and gasps.

"Jesus, Phil, you're freezing," she says, immediately shifting closer.

"I hadn't noticed," he tries to play it off, but his shivering stutter pretty much ruins the effect.

"You should've taken a shower."

"Too tired," he says, his voice barely a rough whisper as exhaustion tugs at him.

He feels her sigh more than he hears it, her breath dancing across his cheek. He cracks open his eyes and smiles when he notices they're practically sharing the same pillow now, the streetlights casting enough light for him to see the outline of her face. She reaches out and takes his right hand in hers, rubbing her thumb over his skin until it starts to warm beneath her touch. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, sinking deeper into the mattress as his limbs finally relax.

"Why'd it take you four days?" She asks after a minute, unconsciously bringing their joined hands closer toward her.

He knows what he wants to say. _Why'd it take us years to get here?_

Instead, he says: "You know why." Laced with regret.

"Nothing's changed," she says, so softly he almost misses it. "I'm still your partner."

He moves his hand out from under hers, hesitating only for a split second before lacing their fingers together. He's not cold anymore; they both know that. Old habits. "And I'll be your partner for as long as you let me."

She doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't turn away, either. They fall asleep like that, huddled together against the cold December night, salvaging what they can as the air around them continues to change. 

-

In the morning, they get word that a deal's going down the following night. An opportunity to take down two birds with one stone; seller and buyer. They spend most of the afternoon in the hotel room going over intelligence, their target apparently uninterested in the outside world today.

"What kind of arms dealer goes by the name Otto?" May says from the couch, papers spread out on the table in front of her.

"Not everybody is born with a cool villain codename, I guess," he shrugs, leaning against the wall next to the window. The snow's descent has started to slow.

"I'm going downstairs," she says, shrugging on her coat as she walks toward the door. "Your usual?"

He nods and smiles at her, turning back to the window as the door clicks shut.

She is restless, her focus in need of constant movement.

He ignores the anxiety crawling under his skin, the worry that eventually he won't be enough to keep her grounded, that the job already belongs to another.

-

She knows enough flirty German to get them into the club. The sun has been down for hours now, but he watches the exchange from behind his sunglasses, never taking his eyes off her. He swallows hard as she trails a hand down the bouncer's chest, fingers playing with the edges of his jacket as she leans in close. When she finally leans away and moves towards the door, she reaches behind her and takes his hand, pulling him with her. The bouncer gives him a look, a challenge laced with envy, and he can only grin back, knowing full well how he feels. They walk through the club's doors and find themselves enveloped by music and lights.

They make their way to the lounge on the second floor. The lights are dimmer, but the music still pounds through his chest. It is constricting, overwhelming, his every breath heavy. Her fingers are still wrapped tight around his; he follows her lead.

She leads him to the empty couch in the corner, the same vantage point he would have picked. Smoke lingers in the air, the haze blending the red and green lights coming up from the dance floor below. He sits down, easily wrapping his arm around her shoulder as she joins him. He's nestled between her and the arm of the couch, with a perfect line of sight between them and their target, who's smoking a cigar and nursing a whiskey across the room.

It's nearly too dark for Phil to see through his sunglasses, but he leaves them on. He counts the number of security guards, both the club's and Otto's personal entourage.

"I count 7," he leans forward to say into her ear, his lips practically on her skin in order to be heard over the music.

"Eight," she says, smiling like he said something funny as one of the guards walks past them. "Second bartender. Long hair."

He turns his head toward the bar, and sees the shoulder holster hidden under the man's jacket. He nods, and then nearly jumps out of his skin as she runs her hand over the top of his thigh. He swallows against the dryness in his throat and closes his eyes, suddenly incredibly thankful for his sunglasses.

When he finally turns to look at her, he realizes she's ordering them drinks. He tries not to seem too eager when the server returns, taking a drink and savoring the malty beer as soon as the woman hands it to him. _Get a hold of yourself, Phil._

Thirty minutes pass, and the only thing that changes is his sobriety. He's able to tune out the music now, the bass a distant rumble. He's relaxed into the couch, absently running his hand up and down her arm. There's no empty space between them from hip to shoulder, and he tries to ignore how natural it feels.

He hates to admit it, but surveillance is boring. He's growing increasingly restless as their target continues to lounge in his chair, talking with one of his guards as he orders yet another drink. Suddenly, he feels her tense against his side, her hand tightening on his thigh; he looks over and sees a man sitting on the opposite end of the couch, hardly six inches away from May.

He finishes the beer in his hand and leans forward to set it on the table, getting a good look at the guy as he does. His tattoo winds up around the back of his neck, starting somewhere below his collar. He hasn't spared a glance at Phil, eyes locked on May even as she practically wraps herself around Phil.

The man says something, not loud enough for Phil to hear over the music, but May clearly hears him. She turns her head and says something over her shoulder, though his German isn't good enough to know exactly what; he gets the gist of it from the way the guy rolls his eyes.

He feels her tense up even more, clearly itching to react in a way that will most certainly blow their cover. So he does the first thing he can think of, and kisses her.

It's rushed, almost harsh, the way he presses his mouth to hers. He feels her sharp intake of breath against his cheek before she leans into him, bringing her hand up to the back of his neck to pull him closer, to kiss him deeper. She matches his aggressiveness and he struggles to catch his breath, overwhelmed and on the verge of getting lost in the feeling of her. He can't help the full-body shudder when he feels her tongue hot against his own.

He manages to crack open his eyes and look over her shoulder, but now the guy is just watching them. He must know Phil's looking right at him despite the sunglasses he still has on, because he smiles smugly and reaches out, laying a hand on May's shoulder. In one smooth motion, she shrugs off his hand and lifts herself onto Phil's lap, her knees on either side of his hips. She leans forward until he's pressed against the back of the couch again, until they're pressed together from shoulder to hip in all new ways.

He grips her hips with both hands and kisses her. He shouldn't, but there's a part of him that relishes in the knowledge that Tattoo is still watching. She pulls back just far enough to pull the sunglasses off his face, and for a split second their eyes meet, his breath catching in his throat when he sees the look in her eye. She's still in operation mode, but there's desire there, too. She takes a quick look to the side, exhaling softly when she sees he's still there, unmoving.

Her cheek is soft against his palm when he pulls her forward again. He feels more than hears the way she moans into his mouth, and the sudden possessiveness he feels is almost overwhelming. The way he splays his hand over her back, pressing them even closer, screams _she's mine_ , even though he feels helplessly at her mercy. His hand travels down to her leg, thumb sweeping across the inside of her thigh, and he can't help the way his hips rise to meet hers as she tenses beneath his touch and leans into him.

_Slow down_ , he knows he should think, but he doesn't. Neither does she.

She's got her arms wrapped around his neck, kissing him back like she has no intentions of stopping anytime soon. He knows she can feel him getting hard against her, but she doesn't shift away, or make a remark under her breath, soft against his ear. She just trails a hand down his chest, the backs of her fingers moving softly over his stomach, so close to sliding beneath his waistband that it's all he can think about. She knows full well what she's doing to him, and it's driving him crazy. He runs his thumb across the inside of her thigh again, savoring the way she trembles against him.

Distantly, through the haze wrapped around his mind, he feels the couch shift under them; he doesn't need to open his eyes to know they're finally alone again. She doesn't seem to realize this yet, thumb gentle on his cheek. He kisses her one last time, as gently as he can, lingering against her lips until he forces himself to lean away from her. He turns his face into her touch as they catch their breath, still tangled up in each other.

"May," he tries to say, but it comes out more like a harsh whisper, his throat dry and lips bruised. He doesn't know what else he meant to say.

In some distant part of his mind, he manages to think _we were almost made_. Tattoo has finished his journey across the lounge and is now sitting down next to their arms dealer. May doesn't see it yet, still resting against him with her cheek against his forehead, catching her breath. He doesn't dare to move yet; she hasn't said a word, but he knows she can still feel him hard against her. He clenches his eyes shut and wills himself to calm down, sweat dripping down the side of his face.

Finally, she moves, situating herself on the arm of the couch, legs folded and resting gently on top of his. The fabric of her dress helps to cover his lap, and his face would flush if it weren't already red from the heat of the club and the closeness of her. She slips one ear of his sunglasses down the collar of his shirt, quickly glancing at the men across the room. Wordlessly, he nods. She reaches into his jacket pocket and presses the button on what looks like an ordinary lighter. It's anything but.

Somewhere below them, the strike teams are taking their places at the exits.

He's got a million things to be thankful for tonight, and one of them is that they're not wearing mics. He's not in the mood to dodge knowing looks from the other agents.

Two minutes later, the lighter buzzes in his pocket. She smiles at him, sly and deadly, before sliding off his lap and walking toward the bar. He almost pities her first victim.

Strike Team One drops smoke and it's a blur of movement, shrieking waitresses fleeing as Phil takes down the first guard by the stairs. He disarms him easily and knocks the guy out before moving on; he can't help but grin when he hears the sound of glass breaking coming from the bar. He looks over in time to watch May flip the long haired bartender over the bar with ease. The other six guards are taken out efficiently by the strike team, who then descend quickly upon the two primary targets.

Otto throws an empty glass at one of the men as he leaps off the couch, but before anyone has a chance to fire their weapon, May has him pinned.

"Bad idea," she says, twisting his arm until he's begging for her to stop. She quickly cuffs him before letting the strike team take over. Tattoo is actively avoiding her gaze, not even bothering to put up a struggle as he too is cuffed.

They follow the strike team downstairs and out the back exit, the cold winter air sweeping up the alley and taking advantage of the sweat on his skin. It's started to snow again, but he hardly feels it. He stops to lean against the side of the building, watching the other agents take their targets into custody. He starts to shiver, but it's not from the cold; the adrenaline still pumping through his body is nearly overwhelming. He jumps when her hand wraps around his wrist, when she pushes him against the wall and moves closer until her thigh is warm between his legs.

He is consumed by the adrenaline and the intoxicating feel of her, standing so close together in the cold. He knows they're both coming down from the high of the takedown, but he doesn't try to stop her when she kisses him. He ignores the distant part of his mind telling him to stop. It's hard to push her away when she's got her hand under his coat, her fingers running so firmly over his side. He wraps an arm around her waist and brings his other hand to her face, simply holding on as she takes what she needs, devouring him.

It's not until a gust of wind blows up the alley that she breaks away, tucking her face against his neck to escape the cold. They're both starting to shake from the cold; he sweeps his thumb across her cheek one last time before leaning away from the building and starting to lead them toward the car.

The street has grown quiet, the club starting to empty out. He starts the car and grabs his winter coat from the backseat, smiling as May shrugs it on. He drives across the city toward the hotel, relaxing as the car slowly heats up, listening to her breathing gradually slow until she's fallen asleep in her seat.

Maybe things haven't changed as much as he feared. He's at her mercy, but then again, he always was.


End file.
